Rosetta (11 page)

Bond Street, Mayfair, in the heart of London's West End, represents the apotheosis of style and class. Developed in 1683 by the royal Comptroller Sir Thomas Bond – a man whose personal motto,
The World is Not Enough
, seems particulary prescient – it has been a playground for society's wealthiest and most influential individuals ever since. Among the street's better known inhabitants have been Admiral Horatio Nelson, the one-armed, one-eyed hero of Trafalgar, and his notorious mistress Lady Emma Hamilton. In
Sense and Sensibility
Jane Austen wryly describes the impoverished Dashwood sisters' visit to Bond Street with the smiling Mrs Palmer, ‘whose eye was caught by everything pretty, expensive or new; who was wild to buy all, could determine on none, and dawdled away her time in rapture and indecision'.

Bond Street's reputation for luxurious diversion remains. Today the two- and three-storey Georgian and Victorian buildings that line this elite road flaunt exclusive brands such as Bvlgari, Hermès, Cartier and Chanel. The street has another distinction, this one of rather more importance to me. According
to the pamphlet, in its northern reaches (dubbed New Bond Street), at number 118, stands the former consultation rooms of the eminent Japanese specialist Professor Carl Zeno. The address is very, very good.

The day is chilly and, hurrying down the street, I feel my skin prickle as I glance at the small scraps of leopard-patterned satin and black lace in the windows of Victoria's Secret. Number 118 is just two doors away from this jungle of exotic lingerie, next to the more sober Swiss shoemaker Bally. A neat white rectangle, it is bisected by three rows of slim Georgian windows that stand above the handbag designer Anya Hindmarch's boutique. A blonde woman points at something in expensive grey suede in the window and I overhear her say, ‘You would keep that one forever.' Her equally blonde friend nods as both slip eagerly inside.

In Zeno's time it might have been a shop purveying something medical, perhaps an oculist selling pince-nez and spectacles. Zeno would have utilised the upper floor; his illustrious patrons would prefer the privacy.

 

Her Grace the Duchess of Rutland enters 118 New Bond Street via the discreet door that is positioned on the left. Violet, christened Marion Margaret but always known by her third, more romantic name, is with her exquisite daughter, the much admired Lady Diana Manners. Diana will become the celebrated if unconventional actress wife of the British ambassador Duff Cooper, though this lies in the future.

The two women make their way up a flight of stairs that leads them to the Professor's rooms. They have heard about his unusual abilities, anticipate a small adventure.

‘How delightful to meet you,' Rosetta says as both walk in through the door. She invites them to sit in pretty brocade-covered walnut chairs. ‘May I offer you a mint tisane?' she asks and, with their assent, busies herself. The ladies find themselves enchanted
by Madame Zeno's warmth and grace. Already they begin to feel that, compared with their usual medical appointments, this will be a quite different experience.

Dominating the room is a sumptuous oriental rug in shades of blue and, on the table in front of the Duchess and her daughter, a white porcelain vase is filled with vivid delphiniums.

‘Do you know, Mama, I feel a little better already,' says Diana. ‘It is so very soothing here. But Madame Zeno, whatever is that delicious smell?'

Rosetta barely has time to respond, ‘A little cinnamon mixed with a touch of rare Eastern spice,' before the door to Zeno's room opens and the man himself appears.

 

‘I believe it would be preferable to see Lady Diana alone,' Zeno says.

‘She is only eighteen,' the Duchess protests.

‘Oh Mama, don't be silly,' Diana replies quickly. ‘We must do as the Professor says.'

Diana is a great beauty. She has fair hair and limpid, jewel-like eyes. She is also, as her mother has always been, a determined bohemian. As a child she was dressed in black velvet when the other children wore sweet-pea coloured smocks. Later she wore a black picture hat at Ascot decorated with sheaves of gold and silver wheat; when she was photographed in a group of girls dressed for a pageant as white swans she was the single black-feathered debutante. Loved, admired and envied, she is deemed by
Vogue
magazine to be ‘the loveliest young Englishwoman of her generation'.

Diana belongs to a group of well-connected young people with the kind of surnames that fill the newspapers: Asquith, Cunard and Curzon. They call themselves The Corrupt Coterie. Diana adores this moderate rebellion.

The Duchess and Zeno exchange careful looks. Slender and with a cloud of pale auburn hair, Violet gives the impression of fey
soulfulness. But reflected in her deep-set eyes Zeno sees a woman of some experience.

‘Perhaps, Duchess, you would like to step in first,' he says. Violet accedes, inclines her head.

Zeno's room is very quiet. The heady cinnamon aroma is more intense. On the polished floorboards is a fringed square of carpet, ruby red. There is a wide mahogany desk, but Zeno does not sit at it, nor does he offer Violet a chair. Instead, he suggests that she may be more comfortable on the black velvet-covered divan. Next he invites her to remove her sweeping hat, loosen the top few buttons of her pale-pink silk dress.

Violet is a little startled but does as Zeno asks. As ever, he finds it easy to exert his will. Zeno knows the most effective way to do so is to commence with a modest demand; it is only when compliance has been achieved that he will begin increasing his requests by carefully calibrated intervals. He is still surprised at times to what acts a woman, or a man, will be prepared to consent.

Zeno places a chair for himself beside Violet and they begin to speak. He explains that before treatment can progress it is important he attains a complete sense of her being. ‘After all,' he says, ‘we are much more than flesh and blood, are we not?'

Violet discovers that she and this elegant oriental practitioner have much in common. Both draw and paint; they have artistic tastes. Despite the sophisticated world in which she lives, she finds him as fascinating as he is sympathetic. ‘Lilian Pakenham was right,' she thinks. ‘I believe this man has special gifts.'

Zeno knows the status of his patron; Rosetta makes certain he is well prepared for each new patient. ‘Violet Manners is not only a duchess,' she had told him after scanning the list of the day's appointments that morning. ‘She is a queen of sorts, at least of that section of society who see themselves as forward thinkers; the
avant-garde
, I think they call it.

‘They're a group of aristocrats who frequent one another's salons. Scholarly endeavour appears to constitute their principal
passion – they like to talk about the latest book or play or work of art. Although …' Rosetta pauses, an arch expression playing across her face, ‘I believe they are not averse to directing their attention towards less intellectual matters, with the pursuit of each other principal among them. The Souls, they're known as.'

Zeno, too, has the ability to obtain information, though of a different type. The reputation he has acquired as a reader of minds is not in fact unfounded, for his uncanny powers of observation coupled with an extensive if jaded knowledge of human nature allow him unusual access to the thoughts of others. It is in this way that he assesses Violet, sees beneath the practised charm a soul that is unquiet. Of all people, Zeno is aware when another hides behind a carefully constructed carapace.

‘Duchess, why not confide in me what it is that disturbs you so,' he murmurs in his low voice. ‘I am here to help you in any way I can.'

Zeno's words are so filled with concern that, unexpectedly, Violet begins to weep. ‘But however did you know?' she asks finally, when she is more composed.

‘I am trained to see what others cannot,' is Zeno's confident response. ‘I can help you shed this dreadful burden that weighs on you so heavily. Only tell me what it is and I will use all my powers, from this world and the next, to assist.'

Afterwards, Violet was never sure whether it was that hypnotic voice, the scented air or the fragrant tisane she drank that banished her inhibitions so quickly and made her frank. As soon as Zeno intoned, ‘I see a darkness in your life,' she began to confide.

‘Professor, I believe I have committed a dreadful sin. You see, my husband the Duke and I have very little in common. He prefers the hunt and the company of chorus girls to me. You can imagine how that makes me feel.

‘Some years ago my vulnerability was such that I became entangled with a most handsome man. Oh, he was witty and
charming and made me feel adored. I will refer to him as Henry; that is all. Henry is a poet and a gifted editor. He pursued me ardently and eventually his silken words turned my head. They led me to his bed.'

Zeno keeps his counsel. He knows Violet is not naïve; she is fashioning her tale in a way that makes it easier for her to live with the consequences of what she did.

‘I discovered I was carrying his child. Nobody can ever know that Lady Diana is Henry's daughter. She is not the Duke's.

‘You must have noticed how little she resembles my husband or, for that matter, me. Diana looks just like her true father; she has his divine face and brilliant eyes.'

Still Zeno is silent. He allows the words to flow unchecked.

‘But dear Professor, that is not the worst; there is more.' Violet weeps again and this time Zeno holds her hand.

‘Duchess,' he says. ‘Have courage! You must tell me all.' He offers Violet a curious green beverage, promising her it is his own herbal elixir and will help to calm her jagged nerves.

Violet sips the drink, which has a pleasant licorice taste. She does not understand what impulse compels her to confess. All she knows is that she no longer wishes to resist.

‘The Duke's son and mine, darling Robert, died two years after Diana was born. The dear lamb was only nine.' Violet's slim shoulders begin to shake. After years of control, emotions sweep through her like storms. ‘Tell me, Professor, do you believe it was divine punishment for my faithlessness? Was precious Robert's death my fault?'

‘Duchess,' Zeno responds in a soothing tone, now lightly stroking her fingers with his own. With his other hand he removes from a coat pocket his golden medallion on its glistening chain. ‘Watch this carefully with all the concentration that you have,' he says, ‘and all will become clear.'

Violet falls into a trance. She lies back on the smooth velvet and feels herself becoming as light and fine as mist. Curling
deliciously through her body is the sensation of great happiness, of bliss. From far away a mesmerising voice whispers that all is as it should be. It says that the gleam of light that is Diana was destined to come into existence in the very way she did. Violet is not to blame for Robert's death. Robert was too perfect for this world of woe. The angels claimed him for their own.

When Violet wakens she stretches, sighs. Zeno's hand is still in hers. She feels quite different now. Peace has descended upon her. The Duchess looks at Zeno and thinks, ‘He really is most remarkable.'

Seduction, Zeno knows, takes many forms. It is not always carnal, not at all.

There is more in the folder, forty-eight letters, three postcards and three telegrams; it is a thrilling discovery. Most of the correspondence is written on ageing paper in varying shades of cream; a few are light blue. I place them before me, in date order, on my desk. At first I don't try to read, but only look. There are torn edges, the tiny piercings of industrious insects and deep, discoloured folds and creases. As I begin to read, I realise that they contain a wealth of personal remarks together with occasional tantalising references to history-changing events. The letters seem to live.

Just three are addressed to Rosetta. A further forty-five have been written to her husband. Some display crown-topped crests and grand addresses; each one is a testament to Rosetta and Zeno's awesome success. Some of Zeno's correspondents have penned multiple letters; five are from the Earl of Sandwich. There is no mention of illness. Instead, Sandwich, as he signs his name, seems more anxious to entertain Zeno at lunch.

Fourteen are simply signed ‘
Charlotte
'. She, too, must be a grand personage for her letters bear an embossed crest consisting of a red and gold coronet surmounting four interlocking
purple C's, the whole contained within a golden disc. Even a quick browse reveals how frequently Charlotte refers to a host of princes and princesses, yet so far I have no idea who the enigmatic Charlotte is.

One telegram is from a certain Danilo. Despatched from the town of Jena, in Germany, it beseeches Zeno to assist. In this case, the identity of the author becomes clear: it is Danilo of Montenegro, a dashing, romantically handsome Balkan prince. But the nature of their relationship remains a puzzle, as does how they came to meet.

The three postcards take the form of photographs. The first, by W.A. Smith of Stratford-upon-Avon, is of the pretty American actress Marjorie Patterson (who, curiously, was the great-niece of Napoleon I) dressed as Viola from Shakespeare's
Twelfth Night
. The card has been enclosed with a letter to Zeno from Marjorie's mother, Mrs Wilson Patterson, inviting him to come to Apartment 26 Curzon Hotel, Curzon Street. Waiting with anticipation will be seven women including her daughter, another well-known performer, Rosina Filippi (she claimed descent from the great actress Eleonora Duse), and Mrs Simpson, the wife of the naval attaché to the American Embassy. Mrs Patterson addresses Zeno as ‘
My dear
' and writes: ‘
Can you come at half after two o'clock? And what would be the fee? – I would arrange that you should see each one
 …'

The second card is more obscure. The image it bears shows Zeno at the bedside of a distinguished-looking bearded man. Zeno bends towards him, looks concerned. The third card sports an image of Prince Victor Napoleon. On the back is an announcement of the birth of his son and heir. The questions of who the bearded man is, and why Zeno has been sent a picture of the Pretender to the throne of France, are, like Charlotte's identity, just two more mysteries.

Several letters to Zeno refer to matters of physical intimacy. There is one from the Lady Archibald Campbell, wife of the eighth Duke of Argyll's son. It is not difficult to discover the details of her life, for her beauty is so renowned that she attracts admiration
even from Oscar Wilde, who writes of her incomparable eyes of ‘beryl'.

Lady Campbell is also the subject of one of Whistler's most controversial portraits, painted in his Tite Street studio against a black velvet backdrop.

In the picture she glances over her left shoulder with arresting eyes; both a challenge and a promise are reflected in her penetrating gaze. Her left sleeve lies open, exposing her slender wrist. In her hand she holds a yellow glove – she seems about to drop it at her feet. Though Lady Campbell is swathed in dark fabric and plush fur, the painting has a disturbing aura of temptation heightened by Whistler's decisions to reveal her slim black-stockinged ankle, to highlight her pointed yellow shoe. When the portrait was placed on public display, Sir Archibald and his father the Duke were shocked: they thought it made her look like a street-walker, a common prostitute.

Such knowledge provides context for the letter that Lady Campbell has written to Zeno from her home at Rutland Gate, SW, in which she enquires: ‘
Could you let me have a box of the red douche powder which you formerly recommended me for injecting into the Vagina
…?' After referring to other matters of equal delicacy, she finishes with, ‘
Believe me, yours faithfully, Janey
.'

Two letters, written by Zeno himself, provide new insights into this complicated man. There is no copperplate to be seen, no scrolls or unnecessary embellishments. The writing is strong and clear and, like the author's character, the signature is bold. I consider the meaning that an expert graphologist might extract from this unique hand; the t's that are always slashed with wide strokes, the capital letters that are never linked with the words that they initiate, but always stand alone.

Even if one makes allowances for the florid Edwardian prose, ‘
your cherry lips and sweet smiles
' seems remarkably personal language for an exchange between a doctor and a patient. It sounds to me more like a letter from a lover.

Did Rosetta feel the same way? Did she eye this inflamed correspondence, toss her head, drum her fingers on her
escritoire
in annoyance? Or perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps she smiled indulgently, amused by how easy it was to win over these bored rich women, to woo them with honeyed words dripping with devotion.

The nature of the ‘
usual treatment
' to which Zeno refers, like the services he provided in the Curzon Hotel, can only be imagined, though considering the content of the pamphlet and of some of the letters I have read I suspect it could be almost anything from the merely bizarre to the outright dangerous. Zeno's second letter indicates that communication with the spirit world is a distinct possibility.

Zeno's arsenal of witchcraft included hypnotic trances, the ingestion of his own ‘drugless' medications, aromatherapy and various forms of massage. This last treatment was a particular speciality: it seems Zeno's clever fingers were able to minister to a body's hidden needs with an unusual blend of force and tenderness.